The Love Letter

Dear Father Timothy,

I’m not sure why I’ve decided to write you today. I could have chosen my mother, or my father, or even my younger sister, but for some inexplicable reason I chose you. Perhaps it’s because of our last conversation; our last and confidential conversation.

Today is Christopher’s birthday, and this should be a good day—A day to celebrate another one of God’s beloved son’s. But you know Father Tim, today wasn’t a good day—no. Today was a f*cking great day. Because today I stayed home; today I got to sleep in; today I had the opportunity to start that old Mark Twain novel; today I learned how many cracks were in my ceiling, after realizing my door was locked; today I experienced what it is like to be starved; today I witnessed my parents place my sins above my life; today I felt my mother’s warm tears run down my skin, as she prayed over me; today I heard my father cry for the first time, as he tortured the truth from my guarded lips; today I understood what fear truly was, and I have the bruises to prove it; but all of that means nothing, because today, today Christopher didn’t receive a kiss from his boyfriend, but rather his boyfriend received a kiss from the devil.

I knew it was coming and I knew they would react this way, but I had a godd*mn plan and you f*cking ruined it. Only you knew. Not Amanda, not Richie, not anyone. Not my closest friends—no. Only You. Me. And Christopher. Oh, and f*cking God. When I entrusted you in that confessional last week, I not only gave you my truth, but I gave you my life. I came to you out of fear. How am I, a mere eighteen-year-old who’s battled with depression for years, going to overcome this struggle alone? How was I supposed to breathe when every time I took a breath, the words of the holy bible stabbed my lungs. I couldn’t bare this struggle much longer, and I knew Christopher was on the brink as well. So, when I came to you and I whispered, “Father, I found love in a place misunderstood,” I wanted you to reply with the true words of God, not the hateful ink-strewn pages of the past.

Ever since I was a child I looked up to you. The love you held in your eyes, the joy that sat upon your smile, and your laughter the carried you through a room; I saw you as Christ. But on that day, when I confided in you my darkest demon, you betrayed me more so than Judas betrayed Christ. Christ knew Judas would betray him; I never thought you’d betray me. But here I lay, beaten, bloodied, and bruised on the tattered sheets of my bed—a bed, I may add, pure and void of lust. I’m thirsty. I’m hungry. I’m scared. My parents came in moments ago and shared with me that I’m signed up for the camp you recommended. It’s called Cleansing the Unclean: The Word Against Lust. Supposedly, through intense spiritual cleansing, I’ll be made clean—straight; one in the same. F*ck that.

Did you not think that I haven’t undergone my own forms of spiritual cleansing? Did you know that every day, for the past 5 years, every time I step in the shower I perform my own baptism, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing the dirt and sin off my skin? Did you f*cking know that every Sunday, when I’m on my knees, I’m not just praying, but I am screaming! I scream for forgiveness, for conversion, for a cleansed mind. I scream to be straight! Did you even know I would torture myself each time I behaved out of lust; I would cut my thighs and watch the blood swirl with my semen, reminding me only demons are fostered through loving a man. Did you know?

Well, now you know.

But I stopped all that 3 months ago when I met Christopher. He was the answer that God provided, and although conflicted and confused why being with him felt pure, natural, and God’s intended ways, I believed in him. And in my moment of doubt last week, where I approached you, I thought God was only going to reaffirm my beliefs. Now I realize God wasn’t speaking through you that day, rather Satan.

I know God might love me, even if my parents don’t. And I know they have known for a while—a mother’s intuition they call it. But you gave them the flame that burned the wooden cross. And because of you, I can’t even contact the only person who I know loves me. I am left with nothing but my bleeding corpse, for the life of me has gone with my love.

Oh, and I remembered now. I remembered why I am writing you. It’s because when you read this, Father Tim, if you ever read this, I will be dead, and it will be because of you. Not God.

Love,

Daniel

This is a fictional piece, inspired by those I love and my own personal struggle.

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